The War Within
by Scrolls of Enlightenment
Summary: The Revolutionary War doesn't go exactly to plan when Francis doesn't send troops to assist Alfred in his cause. How can he face Arthur and admit defeat? Arthur/Alfred parental. No slash Contains non-consensual spanking of a teen. Don't read if it's not your thing.


**Title: The War Within**

**Author: Scrolls of Enlightenment**

**Summary: The Revolutionary War doesn't go exactly to plan when Francis doesn't send troops to assist Alfred in his cause. How can he face Arthur and admit defeat? Contains non-consensual spanking of a teen. Don't read if it's not your thing.**

**Author's Note #1: I would like to thank my beta Chibi America for having to put up with my lateness. She's just that amazing.**

**Author's Note #2: This is meant to be a one-shot. If there are enough reviews, I might make more like this. Send me your thoughts and ideas. If you don't want to review, PM me. I'll be more than happy to talk.**

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This was it. The final stretch. If the French didn't send help soon, all was to waste. Alfred F. Jones looked at his men. They looked battered and weary, their supplies were almost gone. Most of the gun powder had been hit by the September rain and was deemed unusable. There was no food except that which you could catch. Morale was at an all-time low.

America sighed and sat down on an old tree stump, opening his canteen and letting the last drops of the tepid water touch his tongue. It was all in vain as the grimy water only increased his thirst rather than parching it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed, letting his head drop down into his hands.

The soldiers would reach Yorktown in about half a day's march. But this would have to wait until tomorrow, several of the men requiring medical attention. The crisp autumn weather sent a chill through the air, the harsh breeze overwhelming a few of the soldiers, forcing them to hold their thin coats closer to themselves. Alfred dug his hands into his pockets, his fingertips brushing against various items, pulling out the contents. Besides the small amount of British coins he had and the obvious bits of lint, he found his old pocket knife. He stuffed the menagerie back into his pocket, one of them falling to the ground as he did. He leaned down to pick up the cylindrical object and dusted it off. He was surprised to see a worn-down face of a British toy soldier. He smiled warmly as he thought of that wonderful day when his older brother had made him the set.

_Alfred marveled over the new set of toy soldiers that England was giving him. He looked up at Arthur, whose arm was in a sling. "No way! Is it really okay for me to have it?"_

_ England smiled weakly at America's innocence, "Course it is. I did make it special just for you, America." _

_ "Oh man, this is cool!" He bounced up and down a bit. "Thanks, Mr. Britain, Sir."_

_ "Take good care of it. After all, I did nearly break my hand when I was piecing it together," England gestured at his sling, still smiling at the ecstatic boy in front of him._

_ "Wow! Now I've got my own toy soldiers," Alfred gasped as he turned over another soldier. "You made all their faces different!"_

_ "I painted each and every custom figure separately." _

The smile faded as he reflected on the war about to come. England had done so much for him. The sky was turning darker, the soldiers playing a game with old, dog-eared cards, drinking what little alcohol that was left. He sighed, walking over to his top general, George Washington. The aging man was in his tent, the oil lamp running low and bringing little light to the room as he poured over statistics and plans, even as the darkness overcame the sky.

Alfred sat next to him, listening to the report. The outcome was not going to be good, but the Continental Army was going to attempt a surprise attack. Both men conversed long into the night and into the early hours of the morning. Washington departed and went to his tent, leaving Alfred to his thoughts. After pouring over the plans one last time, and the oil lamp going out, Alfred walked to his tent, keeping his head high, the façade never breaking until behind closed walls. He let the darkness of the make-shift shelter overcome him as he lay on the cold, hard ground. The light blanket did no good keeping the dry, chill off of him as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

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"Non. 'Zhere will be no assistance. I cannot afford to spare any troops, with all 'ze revolution on 'ze rise," Francis quickly dismissed the colony in front of him, with a wave of his hand.

Alfred had traveled all the way to France, a voyage he could barely afford, and now had nothing to show for it. "Are you sure you can't spare anything? I've come all this way…."

"Well…" Francis put a hand to his chin, stroking his thin beard lightly, "I do 'ate Angleterre…. I suppose I can lend some uniforms et armes if 'zhat would 'elp."

America sighed, "It will have to do. Are you sure you cannot spare any men?"

The Frenchman thought longer, swirling his wine around in his glass, "I might send a battalion later on, if I can."

"Thank you," America shook France's hand and watched men load supplies onto his ship.

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America groaned and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Morning had come entirely too fast. He stood up, his back cracking as he stretched out. He straightened his uniform and walked out of the tent, seeing the men eat meager rations of fire cake, a tasteless mixture of flour and water. He sat down next to them, eating some of the disgusting meal, eating the small bugs that crawled into it as well for protein. It was absolutely horrible, but necessary for survival.

Suddenly, the sound of hoof beats echoed across the ground leading into the soldier's camp. Alfred looked up as the horse came to a stop in front of him. A messenger hopped down, panting a bit, "I have urgent news, Sir."

Alfred stood quickly, "What is it?"

The young man paused to catch his breath, resting his hands on his knees to balance himself. "News from intelligence in Virginia. The British army is on its way."

The rebellious colony was shocked at first, soon remembering of his father figure hunting him down. "I thank you, Soldier." He turned to his troops, whom had ceased in their activities to stare at him. Alfred raised his shoulders, straightening himself. He took a deep intake of breath and released it slowly. "If any man wishes to leave and go home, do so now, that your life may be spared from further harm. Return to your families so that no more blood would be shed." He paused to look at the blank stares reflecting back at him.

One-by-one, several men picked up their knapsacks and walked away. Soon almost thirty men had left. Alfred sighed again, knowing that it was for the best that they go. Arthur was a ruthless hunter, as known from his days as a pirate. The less men that Alfred had meant a better chance of catching them by surprise on their quick arrival to Virginia.

"The rest of you, pack up the tents and let's move out," America walked away from the men as they scurried to follow the orders given. He smoothed back his hair, one part sticking back up. The ever-so-present Nantucket rebelling against the rest. Alfred chuckled to himself softly on how it reflected his personality. He walked back into his own tent, preparing himself for the battle to come.

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"You know, I don't like meeting like this," Arthur was sitting at a bar counter, staring down at his shot of rum.

"You were 'ze one that wanted to meet," Francis pointed out from the seat beside him in the British pub.

"Yes. It regards Alfred. Has he come to you in search of supplies?" The British nation tilted his head back and downed the rum without a second thought.

"Hmm…. 'e might have," Francis mocked thinking, tapping his finger against the table.

Arthur sucked up his pride, "Francis, I need you to stop helping him. The boy doesn't know what he's doing. He's too young to take over. He's already made reckless mistakes with all of these rebellious outbreaks. Especially in Boston. He's not ready." It was rare for the Brit to voice his fears, especially with his sworn childhood 'enemy.'

The smile was wiped from the Frenchman's face as he took a sip from his wine, "I only gave 'im some guns et old uniforms. Nothing more. I will ignore him 'zhen?"

England nodded, "Thank you, Frog."

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"Cease fire!" The call ran out across the grounds, the musket balls soon stopping. As the smoke cleared, Alfred looked around. There had to be at least half of the patriots, his own men, lying dead on the ground, their mangled bodies bloody and scarred.

Alfred let his head hang with shame and regret on his face. These innocent men had followed his rebellion without a thought, dedicating everything they had, some even paying the ultimate price. These soldiers of the cause had families waiting for them. How would they take the news that their father, brother, husband would not be coming home?

Even though the French had sent their uniforms, some meager supplies and hand-me-down guns, it wasn't enough. Prussia had tried as well, but no amount of training could prepare him for this. He had to end this and save those still living from the fate their comrades had had. Alfred walked forward, towards his older brother, seeing the disappointment and hope in those emerald eyes. Thunder sounded throughout the skies. The clouds about them broke, sending rain onto the battlefield.

"Don't continue this, America, please." Alfred raised his borrowed gun, the British soldiers behind Arthur raising theirs as well before a signal from their leader made them stand down. "Alfred… I don't want to do this. You can end this, just put down the gun." Arthur kept his gun at the ready, the tears running down his face were hidden by the falling rain.

Tears began to well up in America's eyes as he looked upon his surrogate father. With one fluid motion, he threw his gun to the Englishman's feet. "Please…. Just spare my men. They followed my orders out of devotion. I take all responsibility for my actions." His knees felt weak as he stepped forward again, his legs collapsing out from underneath him from all the stress of battle.

Arthur was shocked that Alfred would surrender after all of the fighting and deaths that had occurred to attempt to secure his independence. He stared down at his young ward, feeling pity for the poor colony. The Brit stepped forward, taking off his overcoat and sliding it over the young adult's shoulders. Lifting America to his feet, England wrapped an arm around him to keep Alfred's balance.

"Make sure the wounded are attended to and that the dead are properly buried," He snapped orders to his troops as he walked off the soggy battle ground. "Get a message to King George and inform him of the victory." Arthur continued taking Alfred away, leading him down a road as the rain began to die down, only sending a light drizzle. Darkness settled in as the two continued, Alfred's tears soon stopping.

The peaceful hum of the night creatures filled the air, the crickets finishing their concerts of chirps. Both Alfred and Arthur made their way toward the secluded house in the distance. Arthur held the lantern higher, keeping his other hand on Alfred's waistcoat. The overgrown cobble-stone path led them to the heavy oak door of the cottage. England dismissed the two guards by the door, requesting absence for the night. They both nodded their heads and walked away from their leader, back down the path that the two nations had just traveled on.

Arthur put a hand in his pocket, pulling out an old brass key. He stole a glance at his young charge as he unlocked the door. Alfred had his head down, looking at his feet and kicking at the ground, upsetting the dirt and creating holes. The heavy door locked behind them as they stepped into the cabin. Alfred brought his head up and looked around. It looked much bigger on the inside than it had outside. Everything was open and connected together, the only exception being a single wall, separating a bed from the rest of the house. A fire brought light and warmth to the cold men as they stripped off their weapons, Alfred of Arthur's overcoat. Alfred avoided the elder nation's gaze as the day's events replayed in his mind. He had lost, and now he had to pay the piper.

America walked over to the fire place and draped his damp coat by it. A kettle of beef stew fragranced the small cabin. Alfred finally stole a look at his surrogate father. Arthur was gently adjusting his uniform, his face looking calm, but underneath there was a storm. Emerald green eyes connected with his sapphire, causing Alfred to look down once again.

"_The Regulars can be seen over the horizon, Sir," A scout came running up to Alfred just as the troops reached the York River._

"_Very good, thank you," Alfred motioned for his men to move up. "Position the cannons over there and prepare your guns." He carried the flag over toward a rock and thrust the pole that was holding it into the ground nearby._

_The march of the British troops could be heard coming over the hill, the uniform beat of the drum keeping them in time. At the front, was Arthur himself, his face a façade of composure. Alfred looked up at the leading Commander, a grimace on his face. The British troops got into formation, the front row leaning down on one knee with their guns aimed._

"_Surrender!" The General, presumably Cornwallis, standing next to Arthur shouted._

_Alfred looked to his men, "Guns at the ready."_

"_For the last time, surrender!" Cornwallis lifted his hand to signal his troops._

"_Not as long as our flag still waves!" America gritted his teeth._

_A multitude of deafening roars from the English men's smoothbore flintlock muskets punctuated the air like an exclamation point. The American soldier that had accidently been hit took a step back, holding his arm. The first shot of the battle had been fired. _

"Alfred… There's no need of tension between us any longer." Arthur walked towards him, breaking the flashback, and strolled over to the fireplace. Alfred shied away, the awkward silence in the room building.

The Brit picked up a wooden spoon, stirring the beef stew. Alfred's stomach rumbled at the thought of the rich comfort food. Compared to the maggoty bread they had been eating for the last year and a half, the simple meal looked like a feast. Arthur walked over to the cabinet and took out a loaf of sourdough bread. Cutting away a small section, he set it aside to pick up a bowl. Packing back to the fire once again, Arthur ladled out a generous portion of the stew and added the crust of bread to the side, handing it to the damp nation next to him. "Eat. It will make you feel better."

Alfred opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by a stare that offered no relent. His stomach won in the end as he took the offered utensil and dug into the meal. Arthur stood next to the boy, silently watching him devour the food like he had not eaten in months, which given his lack of fat on his bones, could have very well been the case. He continued his silence as he dished out seconds to his prodigal son.

America sat down during his second bowl, savoring the deep flavors of the perfectly cooked beef. He knew that England couldn't have cooked this and that someone in the British army must have. Arthur was never a good cook and always managed to set everything he touched in the kitchen on fire. The memories of his childhood with England made a smile grace his face. He soon finished his seconds, contently full.

Arthur watched the smile creep up on Alfred's face, dishing up his own bowl of soup and sitting across from him. 'Wonder what he's got in his mind now.' The British gentleman ate his fill before standing and getting a blanket from the small bed and taking it over to the shivering boy. Alfred took it gratefully, not really realizing that he had been cold until the warmth was offered to him.

_The flare of the guns lit up the field in a fireworks display. The shouts of battle cries filled the air as the British ran forward, bayonets at the ready. _

"_Stand your ground!" Alfred clenched his teeth, reloading his gun as fast as he could._

_The Continental Army, or what remained of it, went against the odds, but it wouldn't be enough. America could see that they were losing. This needed to end. _

"I don't deserve this…" The American's face was stoic again as he whispered while Arthur adjusted the blanket so that it covered the entire colony.

"Yes you do, Al. I still love you, even after what you did. I will never stop loving you," England broke the tension and silence. "And just because you messed up doesn't mean that you're ruining your life. You just made a mistake. You're young, Alfred. You'll make many more of them by the time you're my age." He patted his shoulder gently.

Alfred felt horrible still as he soaked up the last juices of the delicious soup in his bread and ate it. England finished his as well before standing and taking both bowls away.

"I assume you know what will have to happen, Alfred."

America nodded, vacating his chair and standing beside it. This had not been the first time England had to punish him, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The older nation always had his eye on the colony, regulating his trade and making sure that the taxes were paid on time.

Arthur set down the empty dinner bowls and sat down in the armless chair Alfred had just been in, "Slacks and knickers down."

The younger man did just that, letting his pants and his underclothes pool at his feet. This reminded him of his school days, when Arthur would make him bend over and receive licks from the ruler or slipper for not doing his studies when instructed or for daydreaming.

Arthur reached his hand out, grabbing onto Alfred's wrist and leading him over his lap. Pulling the boy closer to him, England rested a hand on his back to secure him.

Without another word, Arthur started landing smacks, alternating from cheek to cheek to give an even coverage. He decided that this would be short. He had already wasted almost four years chasing down the boy, why prolong the reunion any further?

Alfred hissed at the first round of swats landing on his exposed bottom and braced himself by holding onto one of England's legs and one leg of the chair. His face was buried in the British uniform, trying not to let the tears come. Was England's hand made of iron?

Finishing the first circuit of spanks, Arthur began on the second, this time aiming for the upper thighs. Once he had started peppering his bottom, he began his lecture.

"That was very reckless of you to do, Alfred. Not only did you put your men in danger, but also yourself. I don't know what I would do if I lost you, Al."

The sudden realization of the care England had for him hit America like a ton of bricks. How could he have been so selfish? The taxes without representation had been pretty bad, but had he taken a step back to see how things were going in England at the time? They were probably going through the same situation. He was acting like a spoiled teenager and now he was getting what he deserved.

Arthur decided to wrap this up, lifting his knee up higher to reach the tender under curve of the colony's bottom. He picked up a nearby slipper, positioning it. He tapped it a few times to get the feel of it.

Alfred could feel the dreaded slipper against his butt and started bucking all over again. It was his least favorite instrument, besides the cane that is. "A-Arthur?"

"Don't even try to talk yourself out of this. This is LONG overdue," England reigned the swats down on the boy's sit spots, letting it range from the top of his bottom to his upper thighs. Soon America's posterior was painted a deep shade of red.

Alfred lay on his lap, still clinging to the older man's legs. His face was full of tears as the final swats continued.

Stopping after thirty, England gently lifted his ward up and off his lap. It was amazing how young Alfred really was. These past few years had had a toll on the nation that was only in his late-teens. He was nothing more than a boy compared to him. He began massaging the sobbing boy's back, rubbing soft circles until the crying turned into slight whimpers.

"I will always love you, Alfred. Never forget that."

Alfred's thoughts suddenly turned to his men, "W-What about my soldiers? What will happen to them?"

"I've already had them moved to a camp where they will be retrained and put back into my army. None of them will be harmed and they have the option to leave if they want," Arthur replied, patting the younger man's back reassuringly.

Alfred stayed silent, allowing the reality of the situation to sink in, "What about the taxes? Will you back down?"

England pondered for a minute, carefully thinking of what his parliament would agree to. "I can take away some, but there will still be selected ones. We have to pay off the Seven Years War somehow."

Alfred stayed silent, resting on Arthur's lap. His eyes kept fighting off sleep, his head bobbing up and down.

Arthur chuckled lightly and stood, setting Alfred down on his feet. Alfred groaned slightly, but slowly adjusted. Leading him to the small bed, England laid the teen down on his stomach, bringing an extra blanket over and draping it over him.

Watching the colony sleep, Arthur had to smile. He had almost lost what was most precious to him. He thought back to when he had first found the boy in the fields. The words he had said to himself that day as he had rocked the little one to sleep echoed in his head over and over again.

'He's my responsibility now. I can't blow this.'

The End

**Author's Note: Please leave a review, as I'm just starting out and am VERY open to criticism, good or bad. The more honest you are the better at writing I can get. Thank you. **


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